Momfidence: Give Me a Brake

Read how Paula Spencer is dealing with a teenage driver in the house

By Paula Spencer

I could make a long list of “Things I Once Feared as a Parent.” Before my four kids arrived, I was terrified of birth defects, SIDS and dropping the baby. For some reason I was especially anxious about allergies, possibly because I couldn’t imagine life without milk, wheat, nuts or eggs—my dietary staples (along with chocolate). Some fears came true, among them colic, stitches and hearing the dreaded words, “I hate you, Mom.” Most, thankfully, did not. But two of the scariest scenarios I could imagine always loomed far away in the future: paying for college and having a teenage driver.

Guess who just got his learner’s permit.

Firstborn Henry, at 16, is slightly late for this milestone. Most of his peers already have full licenses; they started the process of driver’s ed and permits at 14 or 15. Our son won’t receive his full license until he’s 17½. This was entirely by our choice. We didn’t plan things so that he would automatically receive a shiny new license on his 16th birthday—even though that seems to be a modern rite of passage.

We figured, if he can’t remember to wear his bicycle helmet every time, maybe he’s just as inclined to forget turn signals and seat belts. There’s no rule that says an American teen must have a license in his pocket.

This puts us squarely on one side of a growing divide among parents of teenagers: those who can’t wait to have another driver in the family, and those whose feet are pumping the brakes.

Did I mention he’s only 16? Sixteen-year-olds may look mature on the outside. But better neuroimaging over the past decade has shown scientists that the teen brain is, well, only half-baked. The prefrontal cortex, the part that controls judgment, values, long-term goals and impulse control, doesn’t finish ramping up until long after age 16—not until around 25, as a matter of fact. No wonder car crashes are the leading cause of death for teenagers in the U.S.—especially in the first year a teen is licensed, according to the CDC.

Neuroscience partly explains the push in many states to cut back on the driving privileges of teens. In the past 10 years, most states have introduced graduated licensing programs. Here in North Carolina, for example, a learner’s permit means that for six months you can drive only with a parent during restricted hours, then for six more months with a parent at any hour. Not surprisingly, crash rates drop as much as 40% after states introduce graduated driver license programs. On top of that, 17 states now ban cell phone use by novice drivers, and nine states restrict them from texting while driving. (Duh!)

Now more age restrictions are the talk of the highway safety world. Last fall, the Insurance Institute for Highway Safety, a research group funded by the auto insurance industry, called on states to raise the minimum age for a driver’s license to 17 or even 18. In a 2004 Gallup Poll, more than half of all respondents felt that between ages 18 and 21 was the right age to begin to drive. There’s no automatic age for wearing lipstick, dating or hanging out at the mall unsupervised, so how did 16 become the magical age for driving?

But old customs die hard. Many people believe driving at 16 is a rite of passage. To me, being born is a rite of passage—turning 16 is just a birthday. We parents have to size up the situation, and the child, and make the call. Why should handing over the keys to a very expensive, life-endangering investment be any different?

“I couldn’t wait to get another driver in the family,” one of my friends told me. “The convenience!” A child who can drive herself to school or her siblings to lessons is minutes saved for the parents. Me, I can’t get used to the idea of a half-grown brain driving little kids anywhere.

“How’s he doing?” I remember asking the driving teacher nervously after one of Henry’s lessons, which had taken place in the rain and the dark.

“He’s fine. He just needs confidence,” she answered cryptically.

“Oh, I bet you say that to all the nervous moms.”

Her head slowly wagged from side to side. “You’d be surprised how many need more than just confidence.” (I now drive warily when I spy one of those car-roof marquees up ahead, just in case it’s not a pizza guy.)

When Henry passed, the instructor wrote on her review, “He is much calmer than when we first started.” Funny, I thought. I’m getting more nervous! Maybe it’s because our minivan only has one brake pedal.

On my first drive with my baby—I mean, my newly minted semilicensed driver—behind the wheel, I could only marvel: The creature who once lived inside me, completely dependent on me, now had my life in his hands. Then I hid my white knuckles and got hyperalert to the traffic.

In fact, the boy managed the road just fine. As well he should have. He’s a bright, mostly responsible fellow. But he’s only 16. The car weighs two tons. And no matter how much confidence I have in him, I can’t control other drivers.

Next-in-line Eleanor, 14, already has friends who have passed the driver’s training course and is rarin’ to sign up herself. In a year or two, as with Henry, I’ll set aside my lingering fears long enough to let my second-born become a driver-in-training, too. Never mind that just about then, my other major motherfear will be ready to come true, too: Henry’s freshman college tuition tab will be due.

Zoom! See the kids take off! Sniff! See the mother’s lower lip tremble. But is it fright or is it melancholy?

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